Bad Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy Book 1) Page 3

  “I would if I could.” I’m not sure that’s a true statement, actually.

  Isabel’s voice turns stiff. “You’ve got a hot date?”

  I look at my watch again. Shit. I need to end this call in exactly four minutes to make it to the stupid panel on time. “No, I don’t have a hot date—not that it’d be any of your business, if I did. I’ve got an event at UCLA in a few minutes, and then I’m meeting a couple friends for dinner and drinks.”

  Isabel sighs with relief. “Perfect. Yes, I’ll join you for dinner. Thanks for asking.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Oh, come on. Whoever your friends are, they’d be thrilled to break bread with ‘America’s Sweetheart.’”

  “Nope. It’s a Boy’s Night Out. Maybe next time.”

  “Who are the friends?”

  “Josh Faraday and another guy from college you don’t know.”

  “Josh Faraday! He’d love to see me! Remember how much fun you, me, Jen, and Josh—”

  “That’s ancient history. Josh is happily married these days.”

  She gasps. “Josh Faraday is married?”

  I look at my watch again. “Yup. He’s married with children and living in Seattle. And I’ve got to hang up in three minutes to make my event.”

  “Wow, I thought for sure Josh would die a bachelor, the same as you.”

  “So did Josh. But the minute he met his crazy wife and her even crazier family, all he wanted to do was build a white picket fence with her. He’s got two babies and another on the way and says he wants to fill a minivan. Josh is so happy these days, I’d hate him if I didn’t love him so much.”

  Isabel scoffs, and I know she’s aggravated to hear me use the word “love” in relation to Josh, when I’ve never once said it in relation to her. “Come see me after you’re done with your friends,” she says. “Whatever time it is. I don’t care how late you come, as long as you do.” She snickers. “And then make me come.”

  My stomach tightens. If I didn’t know it before this call, I know it now: I’ve got no desire to hook up with Isabel again. And not just because I’m busy tonight. If I were as free as a bird tonight, I’d still say no. “If you’re horny, call some aspiring model or actor,” I say. “Fulfill your Mrs. Robinson fantasies.”

  Isabel scoffs. “I’m not horny for just anyone, Reed. I want you.” Her tone becomes vulnerable. “I miss you.”

  Fuck. How did I let myself get into this situation with this woman, again? Drunkenly fucking her at that party in the Hamptons was a felony stupid thing to do, no matter how much she swore she could handle a no-strings arrangement.

  I look at my watch again. “I have to go, or I’m gonna be late. Travel safe back to the land of Maple Syrup. And congrats again on the franchise deal. I love being able to say, ‘I knew her when.’”

  “Wait,” Isabel says sharply. “I need to see you, if only for an hour. I won’t take no for an answer, Reed.”

  I clench my jaw. Oh, how I hate that expression. If I want to say no to a request, then I’ll say no. Unless, of course, the person asking me for something is my mother, sister, CeeCee, Josh, or Henn. Also, my housekeeper, Amalia. That woman can have anything she wants from me, too—although she’d never ask, so it’s a moot point. Clearly, it’s time to cut the cord, once and for all. “Isabel,” I say calmly. “It’s obvious this ‘whenever we happen to be in the same city’ arrangement isn’t working out as well for you as you promised it would.”

  “I’m not allowed to miss you?”

  “You’re not, actually. I certainly don’t miss you.”

  She inhales sharply. “Don’t be mean.”

  “I’m not. I’m being honest. I have no ill will toward you. No desire to hurt you. But the truth is I don’t think about you when I’m not in your presence. Which, literally, means I don’t miss you. And, clearly, being missed is something you want and need.”

  “Yeah, I’m such a weirdo. Do you enjoy hurting me? Is that it? You get sick pleasure from being mean to me?”

  “How am I being mean? You’re literally begging me to fuck you. If you had an ounce of self-respect, you wouldn’t be telling me you ‘won’t take no for an answer.’ You’d be telling me to fuck off.”

  Isabel says nothing to that. But I can tell by her stilted breathing she’s holding back tears.

  I soften. “I’m not good for you, Isabel. Never have been. Let’s walk away, once and for all, before you get hurt again, okay?”

  “You want me to walk away before I get hurt?” she spits out. “Yeah, it’s a bit too late for that, Reed.”

  I sigh. “I’ve got to go. Congrats on becoming a superhero.”

  “Are you getting back at me for hurting you? That was a million years ago, and we weren’t even dating exclusively at the time.”

  “You didn’t hurt me. Don’t conflate my passionate desire to seek revenge against a punk-ass ingrate with a passionate desire for you.”

  She draws in a shocked breath.

  “You’re obviously looking for more than a sexual fling with me,” I continue. “And that’s not something that interests me. Not with you, not with anyone. It’s nothing personal.”

  “Nothing personal?” she shouts. “Reed, I’m in love with you! I’m sorry if that’s an inconvenient truth, but I can’t help what I feel.”

  For a long moment, I look out the window of my sports car at the cement walls of the parking structure, feeling angry with myself for opening myself up to this drama again. And for what? Some drunken, nostalgic pussy at a party. “I can’t fathom you’re actually in love with me, like you’re claiming. But if you are, then that’s your misfortune, I guess.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Isabel whispers.

  I can’t help smiling at the question—the same one I’ve been asked by women my whole life. Shit, I’ve even asked it of myself plenty of times, too. Most memorably, when I stood next to Josh on a beach in Maui and watched him exchange marriage vows. And then again, when I stood next to Henny on my patio in the Hollywood Hills and watched him do the same. When I stood on a beach in the Bahamas and watched my baby sister say “I do.” And, most recently, when I sat in a castle in France and watched CeeCee exchange marriage vows with a French billionaire, certain her third time down the aisle would be the charm, even though she and her new husband weren’t even planning to reside on the same continent after the nuptials. All those times, and others, too, as I’ve watched the people I care about promising their eternal love to one person, I’ve found myself wondering, if only fleetingly... What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “This isn’t goodbye,” I say, my heart softening at the sound of Isabel’s sniffling. “If you need a date to a red-carpet event and you can’t find anyone who looks as good in a tux as I do, then call me. And it should go without saying, your secrets will always be safe with me. We started this climb together as kids, and I’ll always have your back. But if you’re genuinely in love with me, like you say, then it’s time for you to move on. There’s no happily ever after I can offer you, sweetheart. No ending to this story where I’m the prince and you’re my pretty princess, and we ride off together into the sunset on a white horse.”

  Isabel sniffles. “You’re selling yourself short. You could be the prince, if you’d let yourself.”

  “I’ve gotta go. It’s time for me to ‘give back’ to some college kiddies, all of whom are almost certainly plotting to ambush me with their music demos afterwards.”

  “Reed.”

  “I’m sure I’ll see you at all the parties during awards season. And when I do, don’t worry, I’ll always make sure everyone thinks you’re my ‘one that got away.’ Not the other way around.”

  “Reed. Stop. Please. You can’t just—”

  Click.

  Oh, yes I can.

  Chapter 4

  Reed

  Ten years ago

  I pick up my cell phone... and then immediately put it back down on my desk, my pulse pounding. I l
ook around my garage, at the large cardboard boxes stacked against the walls, all of them filled with merch samples for RCR’s upcoming debut tour. All of them requiring my approval by tomorrow. And all of them reminding me I’m going to be up shit creek if this massive gamble doesn’t pan out.

  I glance at the notepad on my desk, its pages covered with the furious editing notes I’ve scrawled for the director of RCR’s debut music video. I glance at the documents stacked on my desk—licensing deals I’ve been chasing down for all three of my bands for the past four months. But, mostly, for Red Card Riot, the band I’m betting the farm will put my fledgling label on the map when their album debuts in two months.

  Yeah, I’ve got to make this call. Go big, or go home.

  “Majestic Maids,” a female voice says, answering my call.

  My heart pounds even harder. “Is this Francesca?”

  “Yes. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to book an escort for later this month—for an important event.”

  “We’re a cleaning service, sir. Not an escort service.”

  I tell her the name of the guy who referred me, a star midfielder for the LA Galaxy whom I met last month at one of Josh’s raging parties, and the woman quickly changes her tune.

  “To whom am I speaking?” she asks, her voice suddenly light and bright.

  “Reed.”

  “Your last name, please?”

  I pause, nerves tightening my belly. Am I being reckless here? It’s technically illegal. But, oh well. I’ve come this far. Stolen from Peter to pay Paul for months now. I’m so close now, I can taste it. Which means now isn’t the time to start playing it safe. I mean, come on. If a star soccer player and his teammates, plus a whole bunch of his famous friends, can trust this woman to be discreet, then I can, too.

  “Rivers,” I say, my tone surprisingly calm, despite the thundering of my heart.

  “Hello, Mr. Rivers. I’m glad you called. When and where is your event?”

  “The twenty-first, at Greystone Mansion in Beverly Hills. It’s a black-tie event, so my date will need to rock a designer gown. Something that makes her look like ten million bucks.”

  “Not a problem. Tell me about the kind of woman you’re envisioning. What type are you most attracted to?”

  “Curvy brunettes always turn my head the most,” I admit. “Even more than that, though, it’s women with lots of confidence and sass. Actually, though, in this instance, sass maybe wouldn’t be such a good idea. I don’t think what personally attracts me is relevant here. For this event, the woman needs to be what other people covet. Someone who looks like she could walk a Victoria’s Secret runway. You know, the kind of woman who looks like she could get any man she wants.”

  “And yet, she’s chosen you. And what about later that night, after the event? Would you like to spend time with her, in private—perhaps enjoy some intimate, one-on-one time? It would be a good idea to choose someone you’re personally attracted to, in case you’d like to leave yourself that option.”

  I lean back in my leather chair and gaze up at the ceiling of my garage. At my surfboards and snowboards and kayak resting above the wooden rafters. If everything goes according to plan on the twenty-first, if I find a way to meet CeeCee Rafael at that party and pique her interest in RCR enough to secure a well-timed mention in Rock ‘n’ Roll, it’ll be a whole new ballgame for me. I’ll finally be able to move my operations into an actual office space—hopefully, that amazing one on Sunset Boulevard. I’ll be able to hire a couple full-time staffers. Maybe even buy myself a condo, if I catch a few other lucky breaks. Yeah, if I hit a grand slam at the party, then I’ll surely be in the mood to celebrate with at least a BJ from my smoking hot escort. On the other hand, though, if things don’t turn out the way I’m hoping, if I leave that mansion on the twenty-first in the same position I’m in now—crossing my fingers and toes I’ve done enough to squeak RCR onto the bottom rung of the fucking alternative rock chart, then I’ll surely want to be alone after the party.

  “I’ll play it by ear on hiring my date for ‘intimate services’ after the party,” I reply. “I want to be certain there’s sufficient chemistry between us to move forward on that.”

  The woman snorts, like there being a lack of sexual chemistry is a ridiculous notion.

  “Look, I’m not calling because I can’t get laid,” I say, annoyance flashing through me. “I can. And by exceptionally beautiful women. I’m calling because this is going to be a critical work event for me, possibly life-changing, and I won’t have the time or bandwidth to deal with a date who’s pissed at me for God knows what. For not paying enough attention to her. For not introducing her around or trying to help her career. I want someone on my arm who understands I’m building a fucking empire here—a brand. And that means I need to communicate my place in the hierarchy the second I walk through the fucking door.”

  “I understand, Mr. Rivers,” she says soothingly. “I think you’re brilliant to realize an exceptionally beautiful woman on your arm is a must-have status symbol in this town. But how about I tell you the pricing on intimate services, just in case?”

  Without waiting for my reply, she quotes me a number for “unlimited services.” It’s a number I consider to be ludicrous, and tell her so. So, she offers to take twenty percent off her price, if I book now.

  “That’s still too high a price for something I can get for free on my own,” I say. But the truth is, I simply can’t afford that price tag, whether it’s reasonable or not. Not now, I can’t, before I know if I’ve secured a feature in Rock ‘n’ Roll for RCR.

  “Mr. Rivers,” Francesca says, like she’s talking to a moron. “You want a girl who looks like she could walk a runway? Well, my girls actually do walk runways. Indeed, they’re signed to the best modeling agencies in the world. And as far as you getting it ‘for free’ on your own... we both know that’s not true. Nothing comes for free. One way or another, a man always pays for it. With my girls, however, the only thing you pay is what’s been agreed upon in advance. There’s simplicity in that, don’t you think? Freedom. Honesty, in a way. Far more so than having to wine and dine a woman to get to the same result.”

  She’s speaking my language now. But since I’m cash-poor, whether I agree with her philosophy or not, I reply, “I’ll decide that night, once I know for sure if we’ve got chemistry.”

  “Suit yourself. I was just trying to save you twenty percent.”

  “Let’s talk next steps,” I say, switching gears. “I want to be able to hand-pick my date from unedited photos. Headshots and body shots. Absolutely no photoshop.”

  “Not a problem. Wire me a deposit, and I’ll send you a link to a gallery.”

  “Is the deposit refundable, if I’m not happy with any of the options?”

  “Of course. But, trust me, you’ll be happy.”

  “Make sure my date knows she’s not allowed to network for herself that night. There are going to be lots of influential people at this party—household-name celebrities and power brokers—and I don’t want her trying to hustle for herself.”

  “When I call the girls to ask about their availability, I’ll be clear about that.”

  “My date can say she’s a model with such and such agency, if she’s asked about her career. In fact, if all goes well, I’m sure some of the power brokers at the party will seek her out afterwards, for music videos and whatever. And that would be great. I genuinely hope she cashes in. Just not that night. That night, she’s there for me.”

  “Of course. What’s the event, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “A birthday bash for the founder of Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

  “Oh, wow. Sounds like fun.”

  “A ‘who’s who’ of the music industry will be there. It’s going to be the party of the year in my industry. Even more so than Grammys after-parties.”

  “So, you’re the ‘Reed Rivers’ of River Records, then? I’ve been googling you as we’ve been talking.”
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  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Do you look anything like the photo on your website?”

  “Yeah. It’s unedited. Taken two months ago.”

  She chuckles softly. “Well, then, I can see why you have no trouble attracting beautiful women on your own. You’re a very handsome man, Mr. Rivers.”

  “Unfortunately, I attract beautiful women who have no idea what it takes to build a fucking empire from scratch. Beautiful women who require way more attention than I can possibly give them at this point in my life.”

  “Well, Mr. Rivers, you’ve come to the right place. I can assure you that whatever girl you choose will have no trouble understanding what you’re trying to accomplish here—and enthusiastically playing her part to assist you. Indeed, after seeing your photo, I’m quite certain your date, whoever she is, will have no problem staring at you at the party, all night long, like you’re the handsomest, most powerful man in the world, a sex god who just got finished fucking her with his huge dick minutes before you two walked through the door.”

  I chuckle. “Francesca, has anyone ever told you you’re damned good at your job?”

  “I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Rivers.”

  “I’ll send you the deposit right away. I’m looking forward to seeing those photos.”

  Chapter 5

  Georgina

  Present day

  After settling into a third-row seat of the packed lecture hall, I pull out my laptop and do the exact thing Alessandra commanded me not to do: I load a flash drive with her three best songs. Obviously, I’m going to focus the majority of my energy on charming CeeCee Rafael. But there’s no way in hell I’m not going to have my stepsister’s music at the ready for the record label guy, just in case.

  After stuffing the loaded drive into my purse, I pull out my phone and google Reed Rivers, as Alessandra suggested. And, lo and behold, the photo that pops up on my phone makes my jaw clank to the floor. Hot damn. My stepsister made Reed sound like a chick magnet, and now I can see why. He isn’t only a young, rich, powerful music mogul—all of which would be catnip enough for virtually any woman—he’s also scorching hot by any standard of male beauty. The kind of sexy that makes even the smartest women turn as stupid as a box of rocks.